


Without

by asilentherald



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, M/M, Magic, Memories, Post-Finale, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 09:23:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9997193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asilentherald/pseuds/asilentherald
Summary: Reliving isn't living.





	

Merlin’s wrist hurt. Over the years, he’d gotten used to the aching and occasional searing, there between the sinewy lines of his inner arm, but now it never ceased, and it always felt like a shot of lightning up his arm.

But he didn’t want to stop this writing.

It was early morning after a violent storm. London was alive with people going to work, horses braying, royalty slowly awakening somewhere far from Merlin’s home. He threw his window open and let freshly washed air hit him full in the face. His desk under the window was a mess but the notebook in the middle—its leather cover shone in the morning sun—was immaculate.

Merlin took up his pen, a streamlined quill compared to what he used in Camelot, or at least that’s what he recalled. He turned the pages until he found blank space and dipped into the ink well. Magic rustled in his fingers, soothing the pain in his wrist.

“Merlin! What the hell do you think this is, bedtime?” Arthur shouted. “It’s half-noon and I have to be at a meeting in less than an hour and I don’t have my lunch!”

Merlin jumped to his feet and looked about. He was in Arthur’s bedchambers this time. The place was a mess, like he really had been gone as long as it’d been, and Arthur was red in the face with anger—or was it worry? It seemed to Merlin it was an important meeting and Arthur was nervous. He deflated rapidly and sank into the chair next to Merlin.

“What’s wrong, sire?”

“It’s Morgana again. She’s shedding blood left and right.”

“Ah.”

“Eloquent as always.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Advise me? Isn’t that your job?” Arthur said, looking at him quizzically.

“Do you ask your advisors to fetch your lunch?” Merlin asked, pressing.

“You were supposed to tell George while I was with the knights this morning,” he said rolling his eyes. Arthur reached toward Merlin with an open palm. “We both know you’re not a servant anymore.”

“Treat me better then,” Merlin said.

“What?”

Merlin felt as shocked as Arthur looked. This wasn’t how it usually went. He didn’t know why the magic—

Arthur reached across and cupped Merlin’s face. His thumb followed on his cheekbone, resting on the ridge.

“Okay.”

“Huh?” Merlin sputtered.

“I said okay. Merlin—we’ve been each other’s… whatever for well over a year now. Gwen and Lancelot are long gone, and they’re happy, to boot.”

So Lancelot is alive this time, Merlin mused. His heart was beating too fast for him to think further.

“I’ll make you my consort before the court—before all of Camelot.”

“Arthur—”

“If it’s not what you want… I don’t want to beg, Merlin.”

Something in the look in Arthur’s eyes told Merlin begging was something different between them than a king groveling before his subject. Merlin flushed under Arthur’s gaze.

Magic stuttered and started. The scene dissolved.

Merlin stood on the battlefield now, blood to his elbows. He had a sword in one hand, a staff in the other. Fighting raged in his periphery but he only wanted to find one thing: Arthur—until he saw the figure standing over the scene, clad in black, her hair wild, eyes shining even in the darkness around them. His sword felt lighter in his hands now.

“Morgana!” he screamed. “Emrys is here to face you.”

She whipped around, magic crackling about her, and a vicious smile formed on her face. She descended before him and made space, pushing bodies to the side, so they could meet properly on the field.

“Emrys. Merlin. You fool,” she said, simpering a little. “You’re going to die at my hands, just like Arthur did.”

“Arthur?” he repeated.

“How else would you have his precious sword?”

Merlin looked down. It was Excalibur in his hands, dark with blood but very much the sword only to be held by Arthur. And yet—Arthur was nowhere to be found.

“I have his head,” she said triumphantly. “Mordred separated it from his body. We will bear it on a spike and carry it throughout Camelot. The world will see how great their king was and how small he is now.”

The gleam of madness in Morgana—Merlin didn’t know how much was hers and how much came from him.

He plunged the sword into her chest over and over. Pieces of her flew about him. He cut halfway through her neck before his magic tore him away.

Merlin was still out of breath and blind with anger when the world settled around him. It was Camelot as he first knew it. Arthur was with him. They were walking through town, looking at various wares. Merlin said something absurd, fresh as he was from the isolation of Ealdor, and Arthur found it funny to the point of unkindness. Merlin ignored him, because they were becoming friends now. It was tenuous and new and exciting, and Merlin didn’t want to ruin it. So he let Arthur have his fun this time. Later he’d knock him down a peg somehow.

It was one of Merlin’s favorite memories from his early years in Camelot. It was mundane and calm, nothing really special about it. He didn’t remember the words anymore or what he’d seen that day, other than it was warm and Arthur wore a thin red shirt. Memories were easier for him to construct with words, easier to get lost in. It was harder to create new memories for him. But now—this one was fading, and the gaps—his magic filled them for him.

There were oranges. Yes. That must have been it.

Merlin’s wrist hurt, pulled him out of his notes. It was dusk now. His stomach was empty, but he knew no hunger, only exhaustion. He looked outside at the world still awake. Merlin wondered what that felt like.


End file.
